


i would breathe water

by brampersandon



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Forced Masturbation, Gay Wickie Hell, M/M, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shame, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: "Yer hands are filthy." He spits right there on the floor, watches it bubble. "Don't want that in my mouth."When he does look up, he expects Thomas to launch into another tirade, lay one more curse upon him. Instead he only laughs, scratchy and wheezing. "That so? I got bad news about the rest of me, boy."
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 41
Kudos: 179
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	i would breathe water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [libraralien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraralien/gifts).



> happy yuletide, recip! ♥ i feel like i went as mad as a lighthouse keeper writing this — which is to say i loved every second and i hope you enjoy.
> 
> title comes from _full fathom five_ by sylvia plath.

"All we got to do is wait out the storm," Thomas tells him as he plunks two full bottles down on the table between them. "Wait it out, then ye'll be on a boat, headed to wherever it is ye call home."

It's as nice a way as any to categorize everything they're doing tonight: Drinking themselves stupid, singing old shanties Thomas starts up and he catches onto quickly, dancing around the flickering lights and making their shadows cast spastic on the walls, shoving and shouting and falling together over and over, winding up still in Thomas' arms like a babe in need of some comfort. All just a way to wait out the storm.

When he pulls away, he can still feel the warmth of Thomas lingering on his own skin. He half-expects the man to strike him — he's got no honor, none at all, of course he'd throw the first punch when Ephraim's this drunk, this exhausted, this pliable in his arms. He's close to telling him, _just do it, just hit me_ , when Thomas lifts up onto the balls of his feet and kisses him, chapped and dry but soft. Warm.

He doesn't pull away. He stays there, lips pressed chastely over Ephraim's until they finally part, and then Thomas makes like he wants to devour him.

All told, he can't remember the last time anyone kissed him like this. Most folks from his former line of work aren't interested in this part of it, would rather get on with the show. That's why he clings on tightly, that's why he licks into the old man's mouth and practically moans for it, that's why when he breaks off he trails the kisses down his bristled jaw and revels in the way Thomas says the name he took for himself. 

Ephraim presses his mouth, hot and open, over the pulsepoint on Thomas' neck — the same neck he might've cut to get the key not but a night earlier. Half his mind shifts: The light, the key. Might be on Thomas now. Could pilfer it while he's got his hands all over him, wouldn't even need to be sneaky about it or nothing, the old man's so desperate and distracted against him. Could creep away while Thomas is too fucked out to wake up, could spend the rest of the night with the light. Could lock Thomas out. Could wait up there 'til he dies, and then it's just him, the light, the key—

Everything slams back into full focus when Thomas grabs his cock through his pants, so rough he's torn completely from those thoughts. Ephraim hisses and shoves him off.

"Thought that's what ye wanted, lad," Thomas shouts above the roar of the storm outside. There's a wicked grin in his voice. "Could've fooled me."

"Shut up," Ephraim mumbles, then again, louder, and he staggers back into Thomas' arms to grip his suspenders and kiss him harder than before. His blood feels too hot in his veins. Probably all alcohol at this point, probably just running off the fumes of it. Thomas tastes like it too, all ethanol and pipe smoke and rot when Ephraim licks into his mouth. 

This time he doesn't jerk away when Thomas paws at him. He leans into it, leans his whole weight against the man and shivers all the way down to his boots. Been a while since he had this. Not much closeness to be had out in the woods, where there's nothing but room to get lost, plenty of space to put between your body and another's— but an island, a ramshackle cottage. Here there's nowhere else for him to wind up but pressed against the hard line of Thomas' body. Clutching at that damned mermaid figurine and fucking his own fist with fury's been a poor substitute up 'til now.

The heel of Thomas' hand rocks against him, the wiry hairs of his beard poke and scratch at Ephraim as he ducks his head to bury against his neck. He thinks he can hear Thomas singing again. Could just be echoes from before.

"Yer not a very giving boy, are ye," Thomas muses low and leery against his ear. "Going to make ol' Tom do all the work, not going to give him nothing for it?"

He scoffs, loud and incredulous. "Been doing enough of yer work, haven't I?" Beyond cooking that slop he considers food — and Ephraim's drunk, certainly, but he knows well enough to not bring _that_ up again — he's not seen Thomas do a damn thing but tend to the light since he got here. No cleaning, no repairs, no nothing he couldn't possibly push off for Ephraim to do while he slept. 

One of Thomas' hands snakes its way up his back, up to his hair, where he makes a fist and pulls hard until Ephraim has to look him in the eye again. "That's why ye came here," he reminds him. "Ye work for _me_ , Ephraim Winslow. And ye do what I tell ye to do. Don't forget it."

Ephraim hates him, he does, but he hates himself more for the pitiful noise that escapes him when Thomas takes his hand off the front of his trousers. He just wants to feel it, a body against his, a hand that's not his own, a reminder that this is real, he's not just gone mad alone on a rock in the middle of the sea.

Thomas lets go of his hair to grip his jaw instead, drags a calloused thumb over his lips to part them. "Pretty as a picture," he murmurs, not for the first time since they met, and every time it draws something dark and shaking over Ephraim's vision. Never been one of the fey, spritely ones, always had a broad chest and strong arms, couldn't ever be mistaken for a girl, and still he's gotten this his whole life: _pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty little mouth_.

Just as suddenly as Thomas tucks his thumb into his mouth, Ephraim bites down hard.

"What'd ye do that for!" Thomas hollers, jerking his hand away and staggering a few steps back.

"Yer hands are filthy." He spits right there on the floor, watches it bubble. "Don't want that in my mouth."

When he does look up, he expects Thomas to launch into another tirade, lay one more curse upon him. Instead he only laughs, scratchy and wheezing. "That so? I got bad news about the rest of me, boy." 

Despite himself, Ephraim laughs too. They're both laughing, louder and madder by the second, collapsing into each other again, pushing and pulling until Thomas crowds him against the cold, creaking wall.

Thomas reaches to their left, waves his hand about blindly until he finds the neck of a mostly-empty bottle. "Drink," he says as he brings it between them, then takes a swig himself and kisses Ephraim to pass it to him. Most ends up on the collars of their shirts, but they're still laughing into one another's mouths even then. Thomas pours what little's left directly into his mouth, watches him splutter a bit with a manic light in his eyes. "Good," he murmurs absently, "Good lad, good," and then the bottle drops to the floor before Ephraim drops next to it, both of Thomas' hands on his shoulders shoving him down. 

It's familiar, at least. Unbuttoning another man's trousers — less deftly than he'd like to, but the bitter cold and the drink make him clumsy — and then his shirt. Old habits; he likes to see more of them than just their prick. Thomas obliges, undoing the rest of the buttons toward the top. Ephraim can see that sailing ship tattoo, mottled and faded as it were. Been a while since he had a sailor, too. Maybe the old man's stories aren't complete horse shit.

There's nothing pretty about Thomas. His skin sags and wrinkles, he smells like he's only ever bathed in the sea, his cock tastes more bitter than dandelion root when Ephraim finally takes it into his mouth. He winces, inhales sharply through his nose— and Thomas must take that as a different sort of sign because he chuckles, condescending and gravelly.

"Never done this before, Winslow?" The name makes the tips of his ears burn bright red just as much as the accusation does.

He pulls off to look up at Thomas, eyes dark and loathing. He presses both palms flat against the man's craggy hipbones and shoves him back against the wall, holds him there. When he follows, he takes him down in one swift movement, swallows around him and doesn't budge.

"Aye," Thomas exhales shakily, "So ye _have_ done this before."

Ephraim sucks long and slow on his way back up and sets a nice rhythm for himself, fingers still digging bruises into Thomas' pockmarked skin. Doesn't matter that he finds the man repulsive; a cock in his mouth is a cock in his mouth. Always gives him something to focus on, always feels good. Always brings the chaos in his head down to one colossal hum, interrupted only by the blare of the lighthouse. It keeps time with the movements of his head, with Thomas' needy groans.

He feels dull nails digging half-moons into the back of his neck and shudders involuntarily against it. He lets go of Thomas with one hand to instead press to his own cock straining against his pants. Any hope that Thomas might be too preoccupied to notice it dies the second he hears the man chuckle between gasps. "This doin' something for ye too, lad?" Color rises up hot and fast in his cheeks. "Bet ye could spill yerself right there on the floor, couldn't ye? From nothin' more than this." 

Ephraim yanks his head away. "No," he says, though his voice's a mite shakier than he'd like for it to be. "Piss off. Yer drunk."

Quicker than the chain lightning outside, Thomas grabs his face in both hands to tilt it up toward him. "Ye want it as much as I do," he says, fingers digging into his cheeks hard enough to bruise. His eyes squeeze shut and his body, bastard that it is, betrays him again— he's harder still, so hard he actually whimpers for it.

"Touch yerself," Thomas commands. When Ephraim opens his eyes, he's colossal, he's glowing from the inside out like the lighthouse herself. He opens his mouth again and it's only the moan the foghorn, so loud it shakes the walls. "Touch yerself, Ephraim Winslow."

He hates himself for it. He hates Thomas more. He's powerless against it, wriggling out of his suspenders one arm at a time, hastily unbuttoning his trousers just enough to get his cock out. He drops his gaze to watch his own fist close around it, thinks: _I could shatter his kneecaps from here_. 

As if he can hear his thoughts, Thomas fists a hand in his hair and jerks his head back up. His mouth is open and panting, and Thomas doesn't waste another second before guiding his cock back into it. He holds his head there, jerks his hips back and then forward again, experimental almost— and Ephraim takes it, eyes hooded and glassy, his own hand jerking in time. The harder Thomas thrusts into his mouth, the more he chokes him with it, the more difficult it is to get a steady breath, the faster Ephraim strokes himself. Thomas groans and snarls and laughs, calls him pretty, calls him sinful, calls him a good lad, calls him wet and warm as a girl, calls him _Ephraim Winslow_ and fucks his mouth until tears prick his eyes.

Ephraim sees it so clearly: Thomas, bruised and bloody, vulnerable on the ground before him, just a sad old man begging for his life as Ephraim shows him no mercy. The waves crash outside, the lighthouse blares, and Ephraim comes with a ragged, choked off sob. 

He loses time, his senses. His skin feels white hot all over until it doesn't feel like anything at all, he can't see, can't hear anything but an oppressive tinny silence and the pounding in his own chest as Thomas drags him impossibly closer and spills down his throat.

One heartbeat: He's on the rocky beach, flat on his back, gulls overhead, Thomas above him, hands around his neck as he fucks into him. He tries to open his mouth and only a shrill shriek comes out. He tries to move; a tail where his legs should be flaps uselessly. When Thomas grins and calls him _Tommy_ , he's all shark teeth.

Two heartbeats: He's back home. Warm. No storm, no sea. No damned light. No one after him. There is a cabin, yes. There are trees, yes. The light outside is golden, golden. He's got a new sweater on. He hasn't had a drink in two years. He's not happy, but he's something approaching it.

Three heartbeats: He's up to his chin in oily water black as night, he's slipping under, he's piled with logs and lobster cages, he's tangled in kelp and dead birds' wings and he can't breathe, can't scream, can't do anything at all as pale, slimy hands claw up from the silt to grab for him—

"Lad," Thomas calls from somewhere above the deep. "Laddie."

When Thomas' open palm connects with his cheek, Ephraim returns to himself and gasps like he's just resurfaced for air.

They're silent, both breathing hard as they stare one another down. Thomas is not the powerful figure he just was. He's a weak old man with a sad, spent cock dangling between his withered thighs. He looks fearful of Ephraim's reaction, but— not surprised.

How many young hopeful wickies has he brought out here, Ephraim suddenly thinks, to do his filthy work and cook them shit food and berate them and pretend he cares for them and fuck them into madness and kill them when the storms roll in? He's not the first. He knows that now. How many? He won't be one of them. No sir. He won't let Thomas unmake him. Ephraim drags the back of one shaking hand against his mouth, come and saliva leaving a wet trail up to his sleeve. He'll turn this around. He'll take the power. He'll take everything. He'll break this curse, get off this rock, leave this man to die alone but for the decrepit lighthouse he loves so goddamn much. He'll move on to a new life, a better one. 

Next place he goes, he'll be Thomas Wake.

**Author's Note:**

> \- since this is set riiiight before he reveals his identity, i still referred to tommy as ephraim. and also because admittedly, switching between tom and tommy and thomas always confuses me. i am but a simple potato :v
> 
> \- i ended up using roughly none of it, BUT just for fun here are a few references i enjoyed for Wickie Stuff: [keepers duties](http://www.seagirtlighthouse.com/page/keepers-duties.aspx), [the dark side of lighthouse keeping](https://www.hakaimagazine.com/article-short/dark-side-lighthouses/) and [lonely lighthouses for lonely men](https://hfebooks.com/are-lonely-lighthouses-for-lonely-men-by-loretta-proctor/).
> 
> \- thank you to [sabs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets) for patting my butt while i wrote this :'))
> 
> \- thank you for reading! ♥ if you'd like, you can find me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com).


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